


Love wasn't meant for Ivan Braginski

by Zaunerstolle



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:30:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaunerstolle/pseuds/Zaunerstolle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something short I've written for Broski</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love wasn't meant for Ivan Braginski

Love wasn’t meant for someone like Ivan Braginski.

Love was meant for personalities such as Alfred F. Jones or Francis Bonnefoy or Ludwig Beilschmidt or any other being except of Ivan Braginski and of that he was sure.   
He knew it when he looked outside the windows and saw nothing but snow, snow on the fields, the sparse trees, the empty post box in front of his humble home. He knew it when he looked at the dusty pictures on the wall, trying to tell himself it showed scenes of a long forgotten, pleasant past. But it neither was forgotten, nor as pleasant as portrayed on the paintings. 

Love was like his mind’s private communism. He had read books about it, abstract texts and poetry about its beauty and incomprehensibility just as detailed analysis of its concept. It was well conceived in theory, but it didn’t work in life. It was necessary to subordinate possible personal longings to collectivism for a greater purpose. Splitting up love for everyone in order to have no love for anything or anyone left at all in the end.  
up love was for people who had the privilege of being selfish. Ivan felt so selfish for wishing for something less selfless than what he was doing, He wished for the false memories those picture were showing to be real, to cause him feeling cosy and warm inside whenever he sat by the crackling fire in the living room and just looked at them with a smile instead of a wrinkled forehead and knitted brows.

But in reality it was cold and dark and dusty. And selfless and loveless and Ivan knew it, he thought he knew it, but in fact he didn’t understand. Love was one of the longings you crave for even if you hadn’t even ever had the slightest glimpse of it, no idea of how it worked, how it felt under your skin and in your chest. 

But love wasn’t meant for someone like Ivan Braginski.

Love was meant for personalities such as Alfred F. Jones or Francis Bonnefoy or Ludwig Beilschmidt or any other being except of Ivan Braginski.  
And of that he was sure.


End file.
